June 3, 2010

Nothing brings me greater joy than to fairly lose a wrestling match and then to be a soundly spanked loser.

Or to be spontaneously straddled on the floor, dress hiked up, for a fast and hard bottom-warming complete with leg-kicking and laughter.

Or to make a confession and experience the anxiety of awaiting the sentence. "What do you think your consequences should be?", knowing that what I suggest isn't necessarily what's going to happen.

Most of the spanking I desire needs no reason or explanation. We do it because nothing else comes close to the explosive sensations, the total-body experience. This is what our vanilla counterparts don't get: being someone else's toy, trusting that person to hold you safe and to treasure you while thoroughly spanking you is an incomparable pleasure.

Spanking makes me feel young, not in an age-play sort of way. But in the wonderment and lightness, the bubbling expectation of Christmas Eve, the running-through-the-grass-under-the-sprinkler sort of way. I feel light and proud and glorious. I feel like spinning cartwheels and doing underdogs on the swings. I want to twirl until the world spins, drive fast over hills just to feel the dip in my tummy.The fast slap of a hand on my bottom makes me feel all of those things. Spanking is my all-in-one. It's my cure for growing older and my antidote for wrinkles.

Pink-tinted, giddy hope and unicorns and picnics and fairy dust all become possible with the joy of this simple request: Please spank me.